


old habits

by starstrung



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Eye Trauma, Learning A New Body, M/M, Pipes - Freeform, Possession, Sentimental Bastards In Love, married bickering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-06
Updated: 2020-05-06
Packaged: 2021-03-02 20:28:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,163
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24042883
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starstrung/pseuds/starstrung
Summary: Peter brings James Wright his new body.
Relationships: Elias Bouchard/Peter Lukas, Peter Lukas/James Wright
Comments: 14
Kudos: 223





	old habits

“Where is this?” Bouchard asks Peter. 

Peter does not glance behind him. Bouchard is beginning to give off the stink of fear, beginning to realize that he should not have followed Peter into the deep, dark tunnels beneath the Magnus Institute. 

“Where’s James?” Bouchard says, when Peter doesn't answer.

“I’m taking you to him,” Peter says genially. “I lost a bet with James, you see. That’s why I’m here.” He continues walking down the tunnel, and doesn’t need to look behind him to see that Bouchard is following him. Peter has the only light, and turning around would mean finding his way back in complete darkness.

“A bet?” Bouchard says. Oh, it’ll be interesting to see how that syrupy voice of his will sound when James rips out his eyes and puts in his own. James will find a way to sound like a prick no matter what, of course, but it’ll be a pleasant change.

“Yes, I make them with him from time to time,” Peter explains. “It’s the nature of our relationship. Keeps things interesting. Keeps us both from getting bored of one another and slicing each other’s throats in our sleep, know what I mean?” He laughs.

“No,” Bouchard says.

“You just try so bloody hard sometimes, and nothing you do is good enough for him. Your money finances his Institute, buys all his nice things, puts a roof over his head, and he still looks at you like you’re cheap dirt because you forgot to pick up a bottle of wine on the way home. I’m sick of it, let me tell you.”

“All right,” Bouchard says. “How much farther is it? James never told me about this place.”

“No, he’s not much of a sharer, is he, our James?” Peter sighs. “Always withholding information, always thinking he needs to have the upper hand. Sometimes you’re just too tired for machinations and want a quiet night in. I really don’t think that’s too much to ask. Not long now.”

They walk in silence. Bouchard’s breaths are starting to take a panicked quality to them. And still he walks on, more afraid of being by himself than of what lies ahead. Peter can feel him, even now, groping in the silence for something to say, so that he can hear Peter’s voice in the dark. Poor boy. He doesn’t know that having a Lukas for company is worse than having no company at all.

“You two, er, seem close,” Bouchard says.

“Oh, yes,” Peter says, and throws a grin over his shoulder. “We’re crazy about each other.”

And then the tunnel opens up to the huge vaulted hall of the Panopticon. James emerges from the shadows of the tower like a fucking gargoyle, his gnarled old hands curled around the polished carved wood of his cane. Peter wonders how many times James practiced that entrance, the dramatic bastard.

“Now, now, Peter,” James says. “Hope you’re not filling his head with falsehoods. I don’t deal in those, remember?”

“Nothing false about it, darling,” Peter says. He pulls out his pipe and concerns himself with packing it with tobacco and lighting it. “I’m here, aren’t I? As promised.”

“Sorry, what’s going on?” Bouchard says, stepping forward. “What is this place, sir?”

James turns his eyes to Bouchard. Soon those eyes will be in a different body, and Jonah Magnus will walk out of this place young once again. Peter wishes James would just get on with it, but he does love to monologue, after all.

“I asked Peter to bring you here because I need something from you, Elias,” James says, walking up to Bouchard. He comes so close that Bouchard takes an instinctive step backwards, but Peter is already there. Bouchard stumbles into his chest and Peter catches him by his shoulders, keeping him in place.

“Careful there,” Peter says. “Ground here’s a bit uneven. Bit of a shoddy job making it, if you ask me.”

James’ eyes flash. “We weren’t concerned about making the _floor even_ , Peter.”

“Maybe if you did, your Watcher’s Crown wouldn’t have failed so spectacularly the first time, eh?” Peter says, just to see the way James’ eyebrows draw together in rage. 

“Sorry, go on, you were saying something about needing Elias?” Peter says, blithely.

James gives Peter a look. An _I’ll deal with you later you cretin_ look. Peter just grins. James looks back to Bouchard, who has begun to struggle uselessly in Peter’s grip.

“Yes, well, perhaps it’s best to just show you,” James says, still sounding irritated at having his little moment stepped on. “Let you see it with your own eyes, that’s always best.” He raises a hand to Bouchard’s face, and traces his fingers on the curve of Bouchard’s eye sockets, almost as if he’s going to pluck them out right there.

They take Bouchard up to the tower, and he meets its sole inhabitant, sees its empty sockets, the way it sits forever on its throne, watching out over the cells, the Panopticon. 

When Peter first saw the body of Jonah Magnus, he found himself struck with the arrogance of its repose, like even with shrunken limbs and hollowed-out eyes, it still managed to look _regal_. Even seeing it again now, there’s something in Peter, against his will, that _wants_ to see it wear its crown.

It is then that Bouchard begins to scream.

“This part always gets a bit messy, I’m afraid,” James says, over the sound of Bouchard pleading for his life. 

“Knew you didn’t like getting your hands dirty,” Peter says. “You can’t even be bothered to do the washing up, why would you be keen on putting out a man’s eyeballs?”

“Now is not the time, Peter,” James hisses. “Help me subdue him, will you?”

“Oh no, that wasn’t part of the deal, darling. You’ll have to handle this part on your own. I’ll just take a page out of your book and stand here uselessly and _watch_ , shall I?”

James opens his mouth to snap at Peter, but before he can quite get it out, Peter lets his grip on Bouchard loosen by just a bit. Bouchard struggles free and makes a break for the exit. He’s almost there before he stops in his tracks, going utterly silent.

Peter looks at James, a thrill going up his spine to see the way James has gone suddenly monstrous, the veneer of the harmless old man falling away and something truly terrifying left in its wake. 

Here in the Panopticon, Jonah Magnus’ power is at its peak. The Eye casts its gaze on Bouchard, and even from where he stands, Peter can feel all the air leave the room. Bouchard crumples to the floor, so thoroughly is he obliterated by the Eye turning on him, _only_ on him, leaving no dark corner of his mind unturned.

Peter thought the part of himself that still knew how to pity burned away a long time ago. Now he’s not so sure.

“I should leave you alone for this,” Peter says, and then regrets it, when those eyes turn on _him_ instead. It’s like — like being scoured away, flayed. His skin cut open like a book and pinned to the dissecting table. 

And then the Eye blinks, and he is James again.

“You wanted to watch, Peter,” James says, his smile widening when Peter staggers a little, steadying himself with a hand on the wall. “You will watch.”

James turns Bouchard onto his back and kneels on his chest. James’ face is almost kind as he wrenches Bouchard’s eyelids open and hooks his fingers into his eyes. 

Peter can’t look away.

He tries and fails to retreat into the Lonely, to escape the strange intimacy of James methodically hollowing out Bouchard’s eye sockets with his fingers. Peter doesn’t know if it is the Eye that is keeping him here, forcing him to bear witness, or if it’s the way James looks right now that’s entrancing Peter — his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, rivulets of blood and clear fluid running down his wrists as he patiently keeps the body in place.

It’s certainly something Peter will never forget seeing. And something he deeply wishes he hadn’t. 

He never wanted to know the reaction his body would have to the sight of James rising from Bouchard, detached viscera held in both hands, looking like a mad god. James turns to Peter, and tilts his head, his face flecked with blood.

“Well, well,” James says, knowing. “Enjoying yourself, are you?”

“Are you almost done?” Peter says, affecting a tone of boredom, avoiding the question. James rarely lets Peter get away with avoiding his questions, but he’s hoping James has other things on his mind.

“Only the last part remaining,” James says. He goes to the table where he has laid out supplies, and seals away the remnants of Bouchard’s eyes in a plastic bag, wipes the gore off his hands. “Well, two last parts, really. If we’re counting both eyes as separate.”

Peter shakes his head. “Bit too late to develop a sense of humor.”

“Well, I’m full of surprises,” James says, all teeth. There’s something predatory in the way he comes up to Peter, takes hold of his hand, and lifts it to his own face, so that Peter’s fingers rest right below his eyes. “Would you like to do the honors?” James asks.

Peter’s stomach turns, but the idea roots itself in his head anyway, James having planted it there. He imagines it — plucking Jonah Magnus’ eyes out of James’ head and cradling them in the palm of his hand. 

“You’d let me? You’d trust me?” Peter says in disbelief, unable to tell if James is having him on or not. 

“Yes,” James says, almost a whisper.

Peter takes James’ face in his hands, studies its frown lines and its smile lines, and the lines in between. He takes the measure of the weight of James’ skull, considers its familiar angles, the precise curve of its cheek, the sharpness of its chin. He presses one final kiss to James’ lips and steps away.

“I can’t,” Peter says.

James stares at him for a moment with an inscrutable expression, and then his mouth twists into a mocking smile. “Sentimental?” James says. “I didn’t think you still had it in you.”

“Then I suppose I’m full of surprises too,” Peter says, suddenly tired.

“It’s only a body, Peter,” James says, something gentle in it.

“I know,” Peter says, and lets fog sweep at his feet.

James watches Peter step into the threshold of the Lonely and doesn’t try to stop him. “Very well. I’ll see you on the other side, shall I?” James says, his voice already distant. 

“Make it quick,” Peter says. “You know I hate waiting.” And then he’s gone.

  
  
  
  


Peter knows it’s done when he feels James missing him. He turns away from watching the restless sea and comes back.

“What do you think?” James says to him in greeting, wearing the body of a different man, speaking in a different voice. The eyes, though, are the same. Flat and dark and nothing alive in them at all. There is still blood drying in their corners.

Peter stares at him. It’s uncanny to see the same smirk that James Wright wore, but this time on an entirely new face. It will take some getting used to.

“Bit short, isn’t he?” Peter says, stepping closer so that he looms over him. “Is he still growing?”

James narrows his eyes, and _that_ affectation is certainly familiar. “No body is perfect. And this one has remarkably good metabolism. I checked.”

“What else did you check?” Peter asks, curious despite himself.

To Peter’s astonishment, James _blushes_.

“My god, James,” Peter says, not bothering to hide his grin. Apparently James’ new body _blushes_.

“Shut up,” James snarls, using a hand to partially cover his face. “I told you there was an adjustment period, didn’t I? And call me Elias.”

“Elias,” Peter says, testing it. “Sounds like a bit of an arsehole, doesn’t he? Fitting. And speaking of arseholes—”

“Yes, _can_ we in fact get out of here?” Elias says, impatiently. “You did say you hate waiting.”

“Now hold on,” Peter says, and pulls Elias to him by his hips. Elias stumbles against him, as if he still hasn’t mastered grace in this new body, and he glares up at Peter. On James, that glare could level buildings. On Elias, it’s barely a step up from a pout.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Elias says, his voice going low and dangerous, and all right, Peter will admit that even in this new body, Jonah Magnus seems to be no less lethal.

“Just making sure everything’s in working order. You did say you _checked_ , whatever that means, but you can never be sure, can you?” Peter says, running his hands up Elias’ side, blatantly feeling him up.

“Don’t make me throttle you, you brute,” Elias says, but Peter can tell that it’s only a half-hearted threat, so he carries on stroking Elias through his clothes. This new body feels softer, more pliant. Peter likes the feel of it beneath his hands, likes the small shiver Elias makes when Peter kisses him for the first time. _James_ never shivered like that. He never arched his back like that either.

Suddenly, Peter’s blood is running hot, burning through him. He pulls Elias even closer to him, grinds their hips together, and Elias makes a _sound_.

“J— Elias, you—” Peter says, a little stunned, but Elias quiets him with a kiss that’s almost _vicious_ , pulling at Peter’s lip with his teeth until Peter is sure he’s drawn blood.

It’s feverish; it’s too fast. This body is unfamiliar to Peter, but the man wearing it is not, and Peter does his best to seek that man out. He sucks at the spot just beneath Elias’ ear, the spot that always made James mad for it, but he gets no reaction. But then when Peter runs his teeth across his jaw, Elias tightens his grip in Peter’s hair so sharply that Peter hisses with pain.

“I see your manners haven’t improved,” Peter says, kissing Elias’ throat, taking care to be rough with his beard so that it’ll redden the tender skin there.

Elias doesn’t treat Peter with a barb in return, and Peter is so surprised by his silence that he turns his head to look at him. He sees Elias with his eyes closed, a line drawn between his brows as if he’s in pain.

“Elias?” Peter says.

“I forgot that it’s like this,” Elias says.

“What, kissing?” Peter says.

Elias opens his eyes and gives Peter a look of disdain. “Occupying a new body.”

“Oh. How do you mean?” Peter asks.

“Everything’s a surprise. It’s still unfamiliar,” Elias says, frowning. “Its particular configuration of nerves and muscle, its weaknesses, its curiosities.” He sighs, pushing a hand against Peter’s chest and creating space between them. “Enough of this, Peter. Let me learn this body in my own time. You can go now. You’ve fulfilled your side of the bargain.”

And yet, against Peter’s very nature, he doesn’t want to let go. He says, “You’d trust me to take the eyes out of your skull but you won’t trust me with this?”

He can tell that Elias did not expect him to say this. Peter didn’t quite expect it either. “Don’t use my own words against me, Peter,” Elias says angrily.

“Why not?” Peter challenges. “Whose else’s words would I use? This way at least you’ll listen, you bloody narcissist.” Peter doesn’t mean for the words to come out so fond.

Elias speaks slowly, deliberately, less of a request and more of an invocation. “I’m asking you to leave me alone, Peter.” He pauses, clearly searching for something in Peter’s face. “This should be easy for you, surely.”

And it is true that it is usually the other way around with them. Elias strikes wagers that Peter will occasionally lose, so that he can call Peter to his side when Peter would rather be alone, adrift. It is usually Peter who leaves first, not Elias who sends him away. That is how it’s been.

“And if I stayed?” Peter says, unsure of what he’s asking even as he asks it. Perhaps Elias will know.

“You just want to see me weakened, don’t you?” Elias says, bitter.

Peter considers this. It would be easier for both of them if that were true, safer than the alternative. “Yes,” he says.

He sees the moment when Elias takes his lie, cuts away its falseness, and reveals the truth concealed within. Peter ducks his head, avoiding Elias’ gaze.

“Fine,” Elias says, at last. His voice has gone unbearably soft. “Then let’s go home.”

  
  
  
  


There are a few things to wrap up first, of course. 

James Wright’s body must be moved, so that it can be found in the morning by archival staff. He will appear to have had a heart failure. No one will notice that the body’s eyes are not quite right. Peter doesn’t know how Elias has managed that, and he doesn’t ask.

Of course, one of James’ last acts as director of the Magnus Institute was to name Elias Bouchard as his successor. Elias has been setting these pieces in place for a long time.

Peter carries James’ body through the tunnels, cradling it in his arms, and tries not to think of anything at all.

He looks at Elias occasionally, what little Peter can see of him as he follows Elias back to the Institute. Elias doesn’t speak, which is worrying, and he looks strangely fragile in the dim light. Elias stops twice to lean against the wall, drawing himself up before moving on.

After the second time, Peter says, uncertainly, “Are you—” 

“I’m fine,” Elias says immediately.

“All right,” Peter says, skeptical, but happy to leave it there if Elias is.

They go to James’ office, and Peter sets down the body so that it slumps forward onto the desk. He resists the urge to straighten the angle of its neck. Jonah Magnus doesn’t live in that body anymore, he reminds himself.

“Is that it?” he asks Elias.

Elias doesn’t answer. He’s standing turned away from Peter, his head cocked to one side as if he’s listening intently to something.

“Elias?” Peter says. Then again, louder, his hand on Elias’ shoulder, “ _Elias_.”

Elias finally hears him, because he startles and turns abruptly to face Peter. “What?” he says.

“All right, what’s going on?” Peter says, alarmed by this. 

“I told you, there’s an adjustment period,” Elias says, through gritted teeth. “This one is fighting me, I’m afraid. I didn’t think he’d be this… stubborn.”

Peter stares at Elias in horror. “You mean, Bouchard is still _there_? He’s still _in your head_?” He can’t imagine anything worse than having to share one’s mind forever, never being alone in one’s thoughts.

A thought occurs to him. “Hold on, was he _in there_ when we were— when I—”

Elias waves a hand. “It doesn’t work like that, Peter,” he says, which isn’t quite reassuring, but Peter relaxes nonetheless.

“Can’t you get rid of him?” he says.

“It will pass. It always does.” Elias rubs at his forehead. “Just a bit of a headache, that’s all.”

Peter is reaching out to Elias before he knows what he is doing. He takes Elias’ face in his hands and kneads his knuckles into Elias’ temple. Elias stiffens at first, and then sighs and leans into it. 

Elias complains a lot about how chilly Peter’s hands usually are, as frigid as the ice that floats in the waters of the Lonely, but they seem to be doing the trick here. Peter presses his thumbs firmly into the curves of Elias’ skull and ignores his suddenly racing heart.

“Better?” Peter says, pulling away. His voice sounds strange to his own ears.

Elias opens his eyes slowly. “Yes,” he says. He looks like he is about to say something else, but thinks better of it, and Peter pretends not to notice. 

“Come along, we don’t want anyone to catch us lingering,” Elias says, eventually.

They take a cab back to Elias’ flat, and don’t speak. Elias appears to be barely awake, his head lolling against the seat whenever they make a turn. Peter spends the whole ride thinking of telling Elias to rest his head on Peter’s shoulder, but he never figures out quite how to say it.

  
  
  
  


When they get to Elias’ flat, Elias sits heavily on the couch. He closes his eyes and tilts back his head, exposing the long pale line of his throat. Peter, unsure what to do, packs his pipe with tobacco and strikes a match.

“Is that a cigarette?” Elias says, hearing the match being struck. “Light one for me, will you, Peter? I forgot this body needs them. I’ll have to break that habit eventually. Tedious business.”

“It’s not a cigarette. It’s my pipe,” Peter tells him.

Elias opens one eye. “Well, I suppose that’ll do.” He beckons imperiously with one hand.

Peter sighs, but he lights the pipe, and then stoops over Elias to hand it to him. 

Peter never saw James smoke. Now he finds himself transfixed by the sight of Elias’ lips wrapped around the pipe where Peter’s lips were just a moment ago. Elias’ cheeks hollow as he inhales smoke, letting it curl slowly out of his mouth on his exhale like he’s done this many times before.

“Remind me to buy you better tobacco,” Elias says, making a face.

“It’s sailor’s tobacco,” Peter says, defensively.

“Just because you play-act as a sailor, doesn’t mean you have to debase yourself as one too,” Elias says, and his mean little mouth takes another extravagant drag out of Peter’s pipe. “You can sit down, you know. Stop _looming_.” 

“I can’t help it if you’re easy to loom over now,” Peter retorts, but he sits beside Elias anyway. 

Elias seems more recovered now, but there’s still something slow about his movements, and his eyes remain half-lidded, like they’re sensitive to light. Peter considers turning down the lights for him, but he finds himself too greedy for the sight of this Elias, partially undone, his sharp edges blunted.

“This used to belong to me, you know,” Elias says, quietly. “The pipe.” 

Peter blinks. “It was a family heirloom,” he says. 

“Yes,” Elias says, turning the pipe around to examine the bowl. “It was a gift to Mordechai, you see.”

“You never told me,” Peter says. He must have smoked this pipe in front of James dozens of times. 

“I didn’t realize it was the same one,” Elias says. “I didn’t think he kept it.”

He hands the pipe back to Peter and closes his eyes again.

“I don’t think he ever forgave me in the end,” Elias says, almost to himself. “That I managed to achieve immortality, and he didn’t.”

“Did you want his forgiveness?” Peter asks, surprised by this. He has never known Elias to be repentant.

“No,” Elias says, and Peter can’t tell if he’s telling the truth or not.

Peter smokes his pipe in silence after that, and continues to watch Elias’ face. Christ, but his eyelashes are long. His face is delicate in a way that James’ wasn’t, even though Peter knows that such appearances are deceiving. 

“I didn’t expect you to pick a body that was so…” Peter searches for the word. “Pretty, I suppose.”

Elias’ eyes snap open. “Excuse me?” he says, bristling.

Peter sighs. “I didn’t mean— it was a compliment, you daft bastard.”

Elias subsides, although he still looks at Peter suspiciously. “You want to fuck me, don’t you? You can just say so.”

Now it is Peter’s turn to blush. He forgets how unabashedly _filthy_ Elias can be when he’s set on making Peter uncomfortable.

Elias sneers. “Oh, you _do_. In fact, you can’t stop thinking about it, of being inside me for the first time. How it would feel to take this body apart. You’ve already imagined it in your head, haven’t you? The sounds I’ll make when I climax, the taste of me in your mouth. Will it all live up to your expectations, I wonder?” He leans towards Peter on the couch, his hand settling on Peter’s knee, so that he’s almost in Peter’s lap.

“Elias,” Peter growls in warning.

Elias plucks the pipe out from between Peter’s fingers, inhales from it one last time, and sets it down on the table. When he kisses Peter, it tastes like tobacco, earthy and sweet, just a little bit dirty.

Peter pulls Elias the rest of the way into his lap, and Elias settles there with a satisfied sigh, holding Peter’s face in place with his hands and continuing to kiss him. He’s becoming cleverer with that tongue, as if learning again how to use it, begins licking maddening little strokes against Peter’s own tongue, across the seam of his mouth. 

It’s a little messy, a little too enthusiastic, and Peter savors it because he knows that soon Elias will find his walls once again and draw them up, and Peter will be on the other side of them once again.

He holds Elias solidly against his chest, and lets Elias explore his mouth at his leisure, lets Elias suck Peter’s lip between his teeth, lets Elias lean more and more of his weight against him. 

Elias makes a frustrated noise when Peter doesn’t do anything except kiss him back. “Come on,” he says.

“Sorry, did you want something?” Peter says, into Elias’ ear. “If you want me to fuck you, then you can just say so.”

In response, Elias bites down sharply on Peter’s neck.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Peter yells, jerking away. He grabs Elias by his jaw and keeps him away. “If I take you to bed, will you stop _biting_ me?” he says angrily.

Elias looks smug. “You enjoy it.”

Peter refuses to dignify this with a response, and rises to his feet. Elias gets up as well and — Peter can’t help but notice — is far less graceful about it. His walk is unsteady, almost like he’s dizzy. Peter walks by his side in the hall to the bedroom, just in case Elias needs to lean on him.

Elias undresses himself. This body is more slender than Peter had imagined, has got a smattering of freckles across the back of its neck and across its shoulders and chest like it got sun recently, and Peter watches the movement of muscles beneath skin with an odd feeling, like he’s seeing it through someone else’s eyes. 

Elias tosses his clothes aside with a look of distaste, like they’ve offended him.

“Not bespoke enough for you, I gather?” Peter says, amused.

“Polyester,” Elias says darkly, with a shudder.

Elias lays down on the bed. Peter turns out the lights, then strips down to his undershirt and pants and joins him. He covers Elias with his body, running rough hands over delicate skin as he kisses him. Elias is learning to be silent, now, even when Peter pinches his nipples and Elias jerks a little under his touch, almost like he wasn’t expecting his own reaction.

This body doesn’t have much hair on its chest, just a thin patch, but there is a thick line of it going down its belly. Peter trails through this with his fingers, and takes hold of Elias’ dick. It’s not that different in size from James’, perhaps a little thicker, slightly less curved. Peter strokes his hand over it, and Elias makes a bitten off noise, like he didn’t quite manage to hide that one.

There’s fluid gathering at the tip of Elias’ dick now, and Peter uses it to slick his hand, builds up the pace until Elias breaks off their kiss to pant against Peter’s neck, his breath coming hot and uneven, small thin noises occasionally escaping from his throat for Peter to take, greedily.

Elias goes stiff all over when he comes, his nails digging painfully into Peter’s back, surely leaving marks. Peter strokes him through it, stealing away every small noise, every involuntary sigh. At last, Elias sinks back against the mattress, and Peter hoards this away too, his bitten lips, the red across his throat and chest from Peter’s beard, his still-spread thighs. He cleans off his hand and lays beside Elias and listens to him breathe.

After a while, Elias says, slowly, “All right, now you.” His eyes are barely open.

“Don’t you think you should sleep?” Peter says, flatly.

“What’s the matter? Not interested?” Elias shifts so that his leg presses against the bulge of Peter’s dick through his underwear. “I know that’s not true.” His words are beginning to slur together with exhaustion.

“Later, perhaps,” Peter says, noncommittally. They both know that Peter will be gone in the morning.

Elias is silent for a moment. “You old fool,” he says.

“Speak for yourself,” Peter says, and can’t help but to kiss Elias right below his ear. An old habit. He’ll have to break himself of those.

“Massage my head, Peter, it’s hurting again,” Elias says.

Peter, used to these demands, just sighs. “Say please, Elias.”

“No,” Elias says, and turns away. Peter considers the indifferent angle of Elias’ shoulder in the dark and can’t help but smile.

“Fine, come here,” he says. 

Elias immediately slides over. Peter cradles Elias’ head in his hands like before, pressing his cold fingers firmly against his forehead until Elias’ wince smooths out again. Then he becomes more gentle, sweeping his fingers over this new, unfamiliar face, finding its faults and its beauties. 

Peter misses James. Perhaps he will always miss James. He puts his thumbs over Elias’ closed eyelids, presses down just hard enough to feel his eyes lying there beneath that thin skin. It sparks a terrible feeling in him that Elias trusts him not to blind him, that he does not say a word.

“Why did you ask me to do it,” Peter says. “To kill James? You must have known I never would. You know these things. You don’t need me to tell you.”

Elias is quiet for a moment. “I suppose, for once, I didn’t want to be the one to do it. And besides, isn’t that what love is? Offering each other absolution even if we don’t really deserve it?” 

“I don’t think that’s what love is, Elias,” Peter says. 

“No? A pity,” Elias says, and almost manages to sound bored.

Peter waits until Elias falls asleep, and then gets out of bed and gets dressed in the dark. He leaves behind an empty space in the bed, a picture with something missing, and that is how it should be. It feels right to leave, to walk into the streets alone and not think about going back.

He knows he will not see Elias again for quite some time.

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on [Twitter](https://www.twitter.com/star_strung).


End file.
